Denise Mina - Slip of the Knife

“I was surprised when the desk said you were here.” Aoife McGaffry was standing behind her. “Kind of thought I’d offended ye, to be honest.”

She was smiling, genuinely pleased to see her, and Paddy felt a pang of guilt. She had been offended. Now everyone was a potential source of information.

“Auch, it takes a lot more than that to offend me.”

Aoife bought it and looked relieved. “Well, come on in anyway.”

She gestured into the office with a roll of address labels in her hand and they shuffled in and shut the door after themselves. A saw started up some distance away, a high whine, and Aoife saw Paddy wince. She hid a smile and held up the roll. “I need to go through all the files and change the serial numbers. They’ve been put in out of sequence.”

“Does that matter?”

“Does if it comes to court.”

“What are you doing this for? Shouldn’t you have an assistant?”

“I have got one, somewhere, but she never comes in to work and the managers don’t seem to care. I was wondering if she’s the Provost’s daughter or something.”

“Oh yeah, the City Council is a lazy bastard’s dream employer. Both my brothers worked for the Parks Department. Spent their days hiding behind trees.”

“Aye, well, it’s weird moving somewhere new. All the unofficial regulations and rules. I think I’ve offended half of Glasgow and I’ve barely been here a week. It’s a personal best, even for me.”

Aoife took the desk chair and offered Paddy the examination bed to sit on. Box files were propped all along it and rather than move them and get comfortable she perched her bum on the edge.

“So…” Aoife looked at the files on her desk, patting her work space with both hands, remembering where everything was. “What can I do for ye?”

Paddy nodded at the files. “Sorry for interrupting.”

“No, you’re fine.” Aoife turned to give her her full attention. “I never really said it the other night: I’m awful sorry about your friend. It was a rotten thing to happen.”

“Brutal,” said Paddy. She took a breath. “I came to see you because you did your training in Belfast.”

Aoife gave her a wary look. “You’re not thinking of writing an article, are ye? I don’t know what it’s like here, but back home we’re not allowed to be interviewed.”

“No, not an interview.” She didn’t quite know how to phrase it. “A friend of Terry’s had a stroke this morning. He was only thirty or so. I found him.” She looked away, her mind back in the messy hall, seeing the dried chalky saliva. “They said he’d taken coke and given himself a stroke, but I don’t honestly believe he’d use drugs.”

“A lot of users are secretive, you wouldn’t necessarily know if he was using drugs.”

“No, it looked staged.” Paddy felt certain now when she thought about it. “There was a line of cocaine out on the table, I think it was cocaine-”

“If it was a line and it was white it probably was. Speed’s the only other thing people snort and that’s kind of yellow.”

“Thing is, Kevin drank for years. He was a wild man in the drink, famously wild. He drank everywhere, from first light to home time. And then he stopped a few years ago. If he was taking drugs everyone would know. He wouldn’t hide it. He’d be mad with it.”

Aoife nodded. “Right? But there was a line out on the table?”

“Yeah,” Paddy conceded, “and he’d vomited chalky powder in his saliva. I know it looks as if he’d-”

“Wait.” Aoife had a hand up. “He’d vomited white powder and there was a line for snorting on the table?”

Paddy hesitated. “Aye, I know it looks as if he was using but an ambulance took him away and he wasn’t admitted to any of the casualty departments-”

Aoife stopped her dead. “Who knows we’ve met?”

Paddy shrugged. “Anyone could know. The officers would have gossiped about Saturday night. Believe me about Kevin, it looks obvious but he-”

Aoife interrupted her again. “It doesn’t look obvious. It looks odd.” She stood up, suddenly, inexplicably angry. “Odd. Come you now with me.”

She grabbed a brown leather handbag off the floor by the strap, swinging it over her head and shouting out of the door into the corridor. “I’m going out for lunch. Don’t yous be tickling them in there.”

Paddy followed her out into the corridor and saw a man’s head looking back at her from the walk-in fridge. He shot her a smile and a thumbs-up.

“Follow me,” said Aoife, marching off down the corridor.

He stood in Lansdowne Crescent, hands tucked tightly into the pockets on his tracksuit trousers, taking in the general feel of the place. It was right next to a busy road but the houses were wrapped around a private garden, which seemed to absorb the noise. The old buildings faced each other with a quiet dignity. He had been up west loads of times, to Clatty Pat’s nightclub, choking with fanny on a Monday, but you wouldn’t really notice this place, not unless you were looking, not unless you’d got someone’s address from the phone book and come here deliberately.

The fat bird was two up, top flat. No security on the close door.

A big arch ran under the building, for carriages in the olden days, leading to a deserted backyard of overgrown gardens with tumbledown walls separating it from the lane. It would be dark at night.

The north bank of the Clyde was a godforsaken place. Paddy had gravitated here during smoky moments of self-pity and despondency. It was flyblown, paved over with cracked and stained concrete, and there was a sheer drop to the gray swirl of the water. There weren’t even very many seats.

Thin bushes separated it from the busy road, empty gold cans of superlager strewn at their feet. The sun though, the warm days and softness of the air, attracted a smattering of office workers there for their lunch.

They sat on the edge of a concrete box of bushes and Aoife offered her half her sandwich, a large baguette stuffed with enough egg mayonnaise to fill a skip. Someone in the office ran out with the lunchtime orders, she explained; it was all they’d had left with egg in it.

“Why would they even sell food this big?” She looked at it, puzzled. “It would do a coach party.”

“Yeah.” Paddy had eaten one of them herself once, and then had some biscuits. “So why did you say the thing with Kevin looked odd?”

Aoife took a bite and munched it into one corner of her mouth. “You see, a line is for snorting, inhaling. Vomiting cocaine means you’ve swallowed it. No one does both.”

“Do people swallow it?”

“Sometimes. Wrap it in a Rizla and swallow, just as effective but takes longer and it’s harder to pace yourself. But doing both is playing Russian roulette. It’s a hard enough balance to achieve through one method of ingestion.”

Paddy chewed a mouthful of creamy egg filling, enjoying Aoife’s accent, the hard nasal r’s and short vowels. “How could he disappear? Does that mean he wasn’t admitted to hospital at all? His hand was all curled up at the side.” She mimicked Kevin’s claw hand. “Could he have recovered before they got to hospital and gone to his parents or something?”

Aoife looked shifty. “Don’t think so. He may not have made it to hospital. He may have… you know… passed on.” When Aoife spoke again her voice was low. “They don’t trust me.”

Paddy looked at her. “Who?”

“Them. Upstairs. Graham Wilson was in with the bricks, one of the boys, they could trust him. That’ll be why your friend has disappeared: they knew I’d find traces in his nostrils and stomach and blurt it.”

“Who, though?”